


Ghosts Of The Past

by TheyCalledHerCarrie



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: 2004 movie, Angels, Angst, Character Death, Death, Drama, Erik - Freeform, Fanfiction, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gore, Illness, Inspired by a Movie, Movie inspired, Multi, Music, Original Character - Freeform, Original Character(s), Other, Phantom of the Opera - Freeform, Retelling, Romance, Sadness, Sex, Violence, opera - Freeform, original concept, poto, triangles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-06 14:05:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12819138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyCalledHerCarrie/pseuds/TheyCalledHerCarrie
Summary: All she wanted was for something to go right in her life and stay right. She'd always felt so secluded, for reasons she just never could spit out, and likely never would. She wished she could disappear, to somewhere grand like Paris. Somewhere she was too small to notice. She wasn't a remarkable girl. Not in the good sense. Not in the pretty sense.Things had seemed to look up, just a little bit, when her family had checked her out of the hospital, when they'd let her go back to dancing, and when they'd moved into the sickeningly sunny but cozy yellow house outside of the busy city hum. She'd found the pretty mirror and an interesting little music box, broken, at the old pawnshop and begged to have it.Once she had fixed it up,  the music box kept her company with its pretty tunes.They began a series of rather strange dreams, about a strange man, and a beautifully strange place.Only they weren't really dreams, and the place wasn't really so beautiful. But she still loved it, and him, and every opportunity she had to leave her world in sleep and awake in his.This is the story of a girl who chased the ex-gypsy named Erik.We, would know him as The Phantom Of The Opera.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Please feel free to comment, leave Kudos, or favorite. I really do love getting comments whether it's compliments or questions or guessing what you think is going to be happening next. I will do my best to be good about updates, knowing others are reading motivates me. Inspiration and setup for this work is mainly off of the 2004 POTO movie but also a lot of original concept from me and a friend I go to for secondary opinion on POTO and other things POTO related. Without further ado, please enjoy! ♡ Carrie

▫◾◽◼◽◾▫◾◽◼◽◾▫◾◽◼◽

 

"It's so strange, I know this song, by heart and at the same time... I never knew a single word of it. But here I am now, in this... dungeon. With the music in my hands. I can't read the notes, but I know it's the tune. I see the words and I know.  And you wrote them... but you didn't write them for me, you wrote them for her."  
  
"I guess I can't expect that you would. This isn't a fairy tale, and I don't... belong here. I know eventually I'll have to go, for good. But will you blame me any if I pretend this is mine? This one thing?"


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where the story begins, though... not at the beginning.

"Okay Miss Tobler, this is a simple sort of clearance procedure."

 

"Then why is there a camera?" Clarice rasped, a little dryly from her uncomfortable, plastic chair.  
  


"It's just procedure. We document these sessions for everyone." The woman at the very official desk in front of her stood, filled a styrofoam cup with some water and passed it over to her before returning to her chair and opening upthe manilla folder in front of her.

 

"Please tell me your name, how old you are, and our location."

 

The girl sighed out softly, slouching down deeper into her chair, patchy whisps of hair dropping into her face. Her bangs were too long, and it was varying degrees of a strange white, and greys, and an ashy looking black.

 

"My name is Clarice Primsie Tobler. I'm nineteen years old and we're in Privatklink Meiringen in cool, cloudy Switzerland. I am not a memory case, Dr.Baumann."

 

"It's just procedure," The doctor responded mildly, near pleasantly. "For lucidity purposes. Why are you here?"

 

Clarice pursed her lips, turning to look off out the window.

 

"Miss Tobler."

 

"Mrs. Tobler was my mother. And I am here for a number of things I'm sure, but I think it was these," She held up her wrists with raised eyebrows to the camera, showing gauze wrapped wrists. "And because after the other doctors were done with me they put me here."

 

"And how do you feel since your treatment many months back began?" The doctor continued on, undisturbed by Clarice's monotone.

 

"Wunderbar." Clarice smiled loosely,"I am a new woman."

 

"Do you believe that you're ready to be released into the public society once again?"

 

"You've already predetermined this, Dr. Baumann. If I wasn't I doubt I would be here," Her smile mutated into a bit of a smirk, chin tilting downward. The light cast shadows over the hollows under her eyes. "Me, I call Switzerland."

 

"You're a funny girl, Clarice." Baumann responded, clearly unamused as her pen fluttered across a few pages before she rose, switched off the camcorder and opened the door to her office. "And your father is waiting for you. Now," She paused to usher Clarice from her chair and out the door, beginning the trek down the long hall. "Please remember, you must keep up your fluids, and keep your direct exposure to harsh elements to a minimum. As for your hair, I am afraid there is nothing else to do but… medications and hope that your… pigments. Remember in the meantime, your hair and your skin is too delicate for harsh chemicals so no dyes. Our recommendations are…  a minumum of at least eight hours bedrest…."

 

The girl nodded her head along to the doctor's words, but she was not listening nearly as frequent as she should have been, staring down at her fingers as she flexed them experimentally, admiring the long,pale white crescents of her nails. The voices faded in and out of herearshot as she shuffled along the hall while Clarice had her own trains of thought.

 

She missed her cheap guitar and her satin slippers.Missed her perfumes, her makeup. The right to shave without being supervised. Herwhite clothes reeked of bleach and starch,making her look whiter than paper. White clothes, white walls, white curtains.Red and white patterned beds and furniture. Like a very sterile, glorified B&B.

 

A large hand clapping gently against her back startled her away from her thoughts, and when she looked up, she saw her father beside her, looking worn and tired and much too dirty to look like he belonged in such a pristine place.

 

"Gute Morge, mein Schatz." He murmured affectionately, dipping his head to press a kiss to her hair. He smelled like cigarettes and redwood, and bits of shavings still clung to his leather coat and the chesnut curls of his hair. The typical looks of a carpentry artist. "Ready to go home?"

 

"Oui, Papa," She responded in kind, the soft nasal of her voice shifting to a deeper tone.

 

"Ah, you sound so much like your mother." He tucked a finger under her chin briefly before turning to converse quickly with the nurse behind the counter,signing away at a few papers. When he was done, he turned back to her, picking up the bags that had been brought out to them. "You have picked up your French nearly as well as Swiss German."

 

"I had a lot of time to practice." Clarice tried for lightness,a smile cracking onto her lips.

 

"Dis-moi, intelligent, qui est ma charmante fille?" He hummed, peering down to her with a cocked brow as Clarice obediently tucked herself into a wheelchair, per policy of the hospital.

{"So, smart one, who is my lovely daughter?}

 

"Clarice est moi, ta jolie fille." She replied smartly,"And who is my handsome, overworked father?"

{"Clarice is me, your lovely daughter."}

"Ah-Ah, En Francais!"

 

"Leon est mon beau pere surmene." She snorted softly. "I don't feel much like testing papa."

{"Leon is my handsome, overworked father."}

 

"Later then perhaps." His hand squeezed affectionately at her shoulders before he took hold of the handles of her chair and lead her out to the small sports car.

 

"I can't wait to go home," Clarice sighed, blissfully at the thought.

 

"I'm sure you are." The hesitation in his voice caused her to pause while she lowered herself into the passenger seat carefully. "Dad?" Her eyes narrowed.

 

Leon flitted nervously with his fingers a moment after dropping her bags gingerly into the back seat. "About the house--"

 

"Whaaaat about it?"

 

"I sold it."  
  
"You what?!"  
  


"Wait, wait!" He held his hands up in a soothing gesture. "I found us a lovely new place. But, we may have to go a small ways outside of… here."

 

"But-- What about school? What about our old house. Mom-"

 

"Loved that house, yes, I know amour." Leon came and crouched beside the passenger seat, taking her hand in both of his. "But this is better, and I've already made arrangements for you to go to school there as well where you'll be able to begin very soon. I promised you did I not?"

 

"Yes…"

 

"Have I ever done less than the best I thought for you?"

 

"No…"

 

"Then trust me." He kissed the back of her hand and left her so that he could get in on the drivers side, revving the quiet engine to life gently. "I promise you will like it. All your language studies will benefit you." When he winked, Clarice's jaw fell open.

 

"You are playing with me!"  
  
"Non, my dear."

 

"Paris?"

  
"Not Paris." He corrected quickly, still smiling. "Very close though. Chartres."

 

"Wunderbar!" She squealed softly, clearing her throat when the action pulled her throat tight.

 

"Easy," Her father reached across and patted her leg gently. "You should sleep. We've a long drive to the airport before we can go meet everyone."

  
"Meet? But, who else is going?"  
  


"That is another thing I will have to explain," He shifted in his seat a little, fingers tapping along the wheel. His lips pressed together. "I met someone."

 

"You never told me this." Clarice gripped the roof handle above the window, sitting up more in her seat.

 

"She's a lovely woman, Clarice. I promise you. And her son is very well behaved."

  
"Dad!"

  
"Clarice please- I have been patient for you…"

 

"I can't believe you."  
  


"You haven't even met her. You two have a lot in common-"

 

"I doubt that," She responded curtly, slouching in her seat. "How could you do this so soon? Mother has been-"

 

"Don't." His voice took on a small layer of ice. "I don't wish to fight on this right now. The fact of the matter is that I am marrying again, and we are moving to France,where we will continue in happiness and good health from this point forward. It's time for you to move on Clarice, this is why we are in this situation that we are in now."

 

Her lip trembled, but she said nothing, thumb working little circles over the back of her knuckles while she glowered out the passenger window.

 

She heard his audible sigh. "Clarice…"

 

"Please, just- Don't." She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the glass. It was icy and cool against her skin.

 

"I know you miss her, I do too, and I know this has been hard but really… the change, will it be so bad?"

 

"I might have had time to think about it if you had told me sooner."

 

"Things will turn up. I promise."

 

"Yeah… Alright."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you those of you who have kept up with me so far! Please comment and bookmark this work! It's been some time since I produced anything I deemed semi decent...


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Things will turn up. I promise."
> 
>  
> 
> "Yeah… Alright."
> 
> .. Leon takes his daughter Clarice from Switzerland to their new home. This is how it goes..

"We are now arriving in Orly, thank you for flying with us."  
  
"I hate flying." Clarice muttered in a dull nasal, rubbing at her eyes. At least soon she would have a room to hole up in and be alone, and maybe, find her makeup. What was visible of her reflection in the plasticy screen of the tv screen on back or the chair in front of her, was abysmal. She looked like an albino. She'd always been pale, but now she'd lacked much direct or even indirect sunlight on and off for months at a time, and her skin turned into a milk tone.  
  
It might have been flattering, if her lips weren't so red, and her eyes weren't so dark. Brown, from her mother. It suited her better...  
  
Clarice was grateful to be off the plane, and to be able to stretch her limbs. Orly was a short hop from Chartres, but it was still France, and that alone had improved her spirits somewhat.  It might have done more if she had not been greeted to a gaggle of very loud,  giggling little girls running about near the baggage claim.  
  
She'd shouldered her first bag, set her luggage down on the tiles, and was in the process of picking up the light bag that had been sent out with her from the hospital when the tiny girls went running between her and the baggage belt.  
  
The bag flew from her grip when one of the little snots bumped into her, and she flung her foot out, catching the handle on her ankle and flailing her arms somewhat like a bird trying to take off to keep her balance.  
  
They laughed at her, and as Clarice gathered her bag, she had a brief moment of considering throwing it at one of them. Second thought, the more she hit, the better. But... well, that wasn't any way to behave in public. She shouldered her bag, glaring a hateful glare at her father, laughing at her.  
  
"Well, I must say you still have proper form." Leon commented with no lack of amusement.  
  
"Stifle yourself," she pouted stiffly. Following after him.  
  
"We'll take the rental for now, and I'll drop you off at the new house, introduce you to everyone, and then I must go fetch the car. There was a delay on the delivery."  
  
"I still wish you'd told me sooner..."  
  
"I didn't think it was good timing. I didn't want you burdened with anything else."  
  
"I'm ill, Papa, not made of glass!"  
  
"I know, but the doctors suggested that-"  
  
"Scheisse on what the doctors said!" Clarice screeched, "listen to what I'm saying. I wish for you to treat me like /me/. Just because you put me away after mother was gone does not mean I have changed so drastically that must walk on the egg shells! That place could have cared much more for my well being..."  
  
"I'm not walking on eggshells,"Her father's voice went a bit sharp. "You were put away for a reason, and that reason was to keep you safe. Enough about this and enough about your mother. I won't have this conversation with you now."  
  
"Fine." Clarice set her jaw, and the walk to the rental was painfully silent, as was the car ride.  
  
The neighborhood looked nice, and she was given a tantalizing first view of france on the way to her new home. The slightly run down yellow house.  
  
White gothic arches, a large porch. Circular windows. The paint was a bit chipped,  and the porch overhang sagged a little. She supposed it looked a bit like the face of a once pretty, made up woman and how her face would sag and fade with age. But it was still a rich looking home, well loved, not so new, and within one of the windows she could see an iron, spiraling staircase. It made her smile just a little. It was like the doll you you might find in someone's attic from when toyshops still made each toy by hand...  
  
Stepping out of the car and taking her things, Clarice started up the steps and stopped short when the knob turned on the large, cherrywood door, and a woman stepped out, followed by a boy a few years younger than herself. Both were black haired, with evergreen eyes, and lightly freckled cheeks. The woman was smiling. Not with teeth. The boy did not at all, more so he watched them approach very intensely while he chewed part of an orange.  
  
"Clarice," The woman opened her arms and swept the girl into a hug, "Welcome home dear!" Her voice, while pleasantly French, was too warm, and her perfume smelled too sweet. Clarice grimaced and remained rigid until she pulled away again.

"Um, who are you?"

The woman looked taken back for a moment, looking over at Leon before her smile came, with teeth this time, glittery and white, and she laughed it off. "I guess Leon forgot to mention names. My name is Elsie. This is Jonathan, my son." She gestured back to the boy who raised his free hand, the hand unoccupied by fruit, in a limp wave.

"Why's your hair look like that?"

The question was blunt, invasive, and much too soon for her to deal with maturely. Instead, Clarice moved between the two unwanted guests and hauled her things up the steps on her own. Many of the other rooms were already made up or had boxes in them, but she didn't stop until she came to the refurbished attic space,  that looked as much a room as the others had, with a rich, red carpet and a cheap but elegant looking ceiling light that mimicked a tiny chandelier. This would be hers... the more distance, the better.

 

"We decided you should be able to pick out all new furnishings-" The voice startled Clarice a little, nd she turned rather rapidly to see Elsie standing in the doorway.

 

"Since you've grown so much..." Elsie tucked a long wisp of dark hair behind her ear, lacing and unlacing her fingers together. "I'm sorry about my son. He's fourteen, and moody. Not all the time just... he hates change too. Tomorrow we'll take you to some stores to get whatever you'd like for in here."

Clarice nodded slowly, setting her suitcase down and perching against it. "Okay..."

"Okay?"

She nodded again, raising both her eyebrows. "Yeah. Ok."

"Okay..." The woman pressed her lips together. 

"Mkay. Well, I'm going to go start dinner! Your father can help you move your mattress up here- we put it in one of the other rooms. It's just the mattress, we didn't pick a frame yet since-"

"I can do it myself." Clarice turned her back to her and pulled the white, stiff scrub shirt over her head. She heard Elsie make a slightly startled noise, and then her door shutting. Finally. Peace... opening up her suitcase,  she changed into a sienna colored sweater dress and some very dark and translucent teal tights. The dress had been loose on her when it was bought several years ago, but now it fitted her snugly,  a fact she could appreciate now that she was grown. The gentle tightness of her pantyhose was a small comfort to her, and she slipped back into her comfortable slippers she had lived in at the hospital. Still so childish, worn knit shoes with little bear heads on the toes. Now all she needed was to buy some new makeup and she might begin to feel more like.... whoever she was supposed to be.

She hauled her mattress up to the attic space on her own, and sat down upon it, writing down her day in the simple notebook that served as her diary.

Dinner was ready later that evening, and Clarice sat in the dully lit livingroom with them all, pushing her food around her wide, shallow bowl with her spoon. The smell was mostly enticing, save for the stomach-churning odor of meat, and the diced up heads of mushrooms. Her fingers itched to grab another large bread roll, but she refrained, only occasionally sifting the stew in her bowl and cautiously sipping the broth, and the noodles where she could get them, chasing away the bitter taste of so many pills. Her head ached, leaving a soft ringing in her ears. Pressure in her eyes. The exhaustion was setting in, and with it, her patience was thinning.

"Please, I know it isn't so appetizing to you, but you have to keep up your strength." Her father murmured to her, as to not offend the cook.

"The mushrooms I can handle," Clarice didn't return the subtlty. "But you couldn't have mentioned to your new fiancé that I don't eat meat?"

"Oh, shit," Elsie hissed softly to herself, dropping her spoon back into her bowl. "You're a vegetarian?"

"Yes, and Papa knows it." She closed her eyes and pushed her dish from her. It knocked loose the unused butterknife at her side and she merely caught it in her lap, instead pulling the steaming cup of tea close to her and taking several lengthy sips.

"I'm so sorry dear-"

"Don't," Clarice sighed, rubbing her temples. "I just... want to go lay down. Please,  I am tired, and weak, and I would like to get the sleep I need to go shopping tomorrow." She rose carefully, the butterknife disappearing up into the sleeve of her dress. Clarice rounded the corner of the table and dropped a kiss to her father's cheek on the way by, her hand stopping to rest at the shoulder of the woman at the head of the table. "To be clear. I'm not sure I like having you here." Her dark eyes roved over her slowly before she dropped her hand to her side, heaved another sigh, and shuffled off upstairs to her room.

Securing the door shut with her heavy suitcase, as she had no lock on her door, Clarice curled into a ball on her mattress, running her thumb back and forth over her bottom lip and watching her reflection glint and disappear while she twirled the knife around and around in her fingers, singing softly under her breath.

 _"Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,_  
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?  
Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines  
Ding ding dong, ding ding dong..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, you are such a good audience if you went and read all that was available to you! I've already a new chapter in the works for you that will hopefully be completed and up soon.
> 
> The a c t u a l poto related shenanigans start to begin in the next installment so please, hang in there with me! 
> 
> ...  
> Carrie


	4. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day is looking up for Clarice with the discovery of something special...

The next day came,  and Clarice felt just a bit more enthusiastic. Today, she would be able to peruse the stores, and the pawn shops, and she was very much due for a new set of Pointe shoes.  
  
She'd been a little pleased to find a bag with her name scrawled on a little note in the bathroom. The colors were a bit more vibrant than she liked, but at least the kind of Other-Mother-Trophy-Wife had been thoughtful enough to get her something, likely from an offhand comment from Papa. For now, it would do nicely, and she was able to apply a little peach blush and a rose pink lipstick and some mascara, to bring a little light to her face.  
  
It was maybe a bit warm for a turtleneck, but since hers was a thin cotton, she sported it anyways. Simple black on dark denim, and a pair of black flats. She tried to pile her hair up, but she never could make loose buns look pretty.  
  
'Ugh... I look like I belong in a Dr. Seuss booklet.'  
  
The thought had the young woman tearing her hair free and leaving it in a loose, low down ponytail that hung low and covered her ears. She looked less like cracked out death now at least.  
  
When she went down, she found a spinach omelette and what looked like some sort of bread pudding ready for her.  
  
"Good morning, Petite." Elsie smiled faintly from the sink where she was scrubbing away at a pan. "You eat eggs, right? I made breakfast. And a snack we can take along while out today."  
  
"Thanks..." Clarice sat down at the table slowly as her father brushed by to the coffee pot, cutting a section off her omelette and nibbling a bit. A second cup of coffee was set down in front of her and she gave an absent thanks while she doctored it to her liking. She hated bitter coffee.  
  
Across from her, the son sat picking at cereal, staring at her. It unsettled her a bit. Which was funny, as typically people were more likely to be unsettled by Clarice. "Yes, Jonathan?" She inquired sweetly over the rim of her mug.  
  
"Nothing." He got up and brought his bowl to the sink. "Mom do I have to go with you?"  
  
"Yes,  we have stuff to carry if we buy anything! It won't harm you any to help."  
  
"Fine..."  
  
Clarice cut out a chunk of the bread pudding and took it with her on a paper plate to eat while they drove off towards the part of town that held the shops she could look through.  
  
She started basic, hunting for nessecities, until they hit the antique stores and she was able to start looking for personality furniture. Stooping near one shelf, Clarice even found an old film camera, and was looking at it when Jonathan came by her.  
  
"That camera's crap."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"It's damaged," he clarified, tapping the lens. On closer inspection she realized it was broken and sighed before turning a raised eyebrow to him. "You know cameras?"  
  
"We used to have a darkroom." He shrugged a little, seeming in a better mood with the topic of photos. They began to talk, not too far over small talk, but not false pleasantry at least. He was kind of nice, if a bit of an infuriating know-it-all at the same time. They wandered a few more shops,  until they reached what seemed to be the last little antique store on the strip, and she went in on her own.

The inside was a bit dusty, and if it weren't for all the stuff everywhere someone could assume it was vacant. Clarice didn't see anyone else inside yet,  but she wandered anyways, looking at anything thst piqued her interest. She stopped in front of a large, heavy looking mirror sitting on the worn out cushion of a garish floral chair. The framework appeared to be bronze, made up of swirled patterns. Crowned by an elegant set of wings. The glass of the mirror was a little dirty, but looked to be in pristine shape.

Leaning in close to better study the frame, her body cast a shadow over the mirror, and she thought she could see something strange, almost through it. Frowning, she grabbed the mirror frame gingerly, and found it to be pleasingly light for how heavy she'd have imagined. She turned the mirror around, and though she hadn't known what to expect, she was less surprised to find the mirror now looked like a window. "Interesting..." A one way lookthrough.

Looking back down at the chair, she saw a small box. It was an odd shape, not quite a cylinder. More like a carousel. She set the mirror down gently on a nearby counter to pick up the box and twirl it slowly in her palm.

Up close it was lovely, etched with women wearing little more than blindfolds and leaves. It looked to be so old, but the bodies were very scandalous and yet tasteful. There were even the tiniest details like butterflies, and wisps of willow branches. The top appeared to have some worn papers adhered to it, and on them were the faded ink of music notes. Clarice never could read sheet music, but it too looked to be very old, and very carefully done.

There was a latch on the front, but it wouldn't open. Pressing her lips together, she turned it this way and that, gently wriggling the lid.

"There is a key for that box. If you are interested in knowing what is inside."

The voice startled her, making her clutch the box to her chest. When she turned, she saw an older woman, leaning against an expensive looking cane. The only thing betraying her age the soft wrinkles around the outer corner of her eyes, and her weaker posture. The rest of her appeared aristocratic and rich, from her chesnut hair bound in an abundance of colorful scarves, to the warmth in her brown eyes.

"Sorry ma'am... you startled me. I'd like to see it open,  if I may?"

Oddly enough, she was able to produce a key from her pocket rather quickly, offering it out to Clarice. She gingerly took it, and placed it into the little lock at the front. The woman laid a hand over hers then, turning it until the winding sound gave way to a soft click. The lid popped open a sliver as the tumblers pushed up from within the lock and when she opened it up all the way she was met with more of the pretty music paper and remnants of a worn little figurine that looked to be made of porcelain.

A little gypsy doll that spun around on a delicate circle. Dancing...

"The music playing is lovely." Clarice remarked softly, brushing a splotchy wisp of hair behind her ear.

"These two items," the woman patted the metal frame of the mirror as well. "Are very old. They are refurbished items from an old opera house that was once very popular. They were modeled to be very remeniscent of it. It stood in Paris, much time ago."

"An opera house you say?" Clarice murmured, her eyes entranced by the dancing figure. "Why is it not being sold in a shop in Paris, if this is where it was?"

"Many pieces have been sold and carted. Scattered. We recieved many of them." She paused to gesture at a high shelf where a beaten, old monkey figurine sat pillowed on another music box, a pair of symbols in his little hands. "The opera house had many trinkets, and after he began to fall ill, a Vicomte donated many to us. His late wife, you see, was a friend of the family."

"You knew a very rich man then?" Clarice questioned, closing the lid to silence the sweet tune beckoning her attention.

"Oh no, my darling. A relative of mine, also since passed." The woman chuckled hoarsely, waving her off along with a soft series of coughs. "She was a ballerina of the house in her youth... but that is enough of the prattlings of an old woman. Is there anything I can help you find, Cherie?"

"No," clarice smiled faintly and set the music box gently upon the mirror. "I think these will be all. Unless, you happen to have a aturdy set of pointe shoes..." Nothing beat a new, custom pair of course, but neither did having a practice pair a little worn in.

"Ah but we do, up near the front. Why don't you bring along your items with you?"

"Thank you," Clarice gingerly took the mirror, and the box, and brought it up to the front counter. Once there,  the old woman picked up a pair of slippers from a little display by a picture of a rose cheeked, blonde young woman.  "Here we are! A pair of slippers for the prima ballerina."

"You flatter me," she mused in return, eagerly flagging her father from his place at the window. "Who is that woman in the picture?"

"Ah," The woman smiled faintly, and possibly with a hint of mischief. "These were hers. She is my great grandmother. Madame Meg Giry, that was her name. I heard she was a lovely ballerina of the times."

"She is very pretty." She turned when her father came up beside her and tried to look a little puppy eyed with her expression. "Please papa? The last things, I promise!"

"Oh, very well." Smiling, a little amused, he paid the woman for her three precious gifts.

"Treat these with care my dear, there are many stories objects like these can tell you."

"Merci, Merci, ma'am!" Clarice cradled the box in her lap the whole way home, and as soon as she was able, had the mirror hung over her table for a makeshift vanity. 

The slippers, rather surprisingly, had needed minimal additional padding and were in lovely shape. With e everthing scrubbed and cleaned with care, Clarice continued to admire the music box. There was even a small compartment inside, where she could store something like jewelry, or a small keepsake. And the music, is was lovely. It sounded too romantic to be a lullaby, even in the gentle tinkling noises music boxes made. The box itself was much too romantic for a simple lullaby. It did give her a pleasantly drowsy feeling though, so she wound the key again and lay the box at her bedside when she was ready for sleep.

The sweet melody lulled her in easily, and she dreamt of a beautiful opera house, with a pretty blond ballerina, and tall, luminescent statues.

She dreamed of gypsies dancing, many things that she would write down, come morning before coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much if you're still reading. I love it when people read my content X3 things will begin to get more exciting soon! Any clue what will happen next? Please feel free to leave comments, bookmark this, and stay tuned for the next installment. Much love,  
> XxXx


	5. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all is right with the girl with the strange hair, and we begin to realize this, along with a dream that seems more like an even stranger step into the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait everyone, life happens and all you know... Because it took longer, I bring you a longer chapter this time! Please, feel free to favorite, I always love comments, and of course above all enjoy!

Clarice had been pleasantly surprised when she'd found the claw foot tub in one of the bathrooms. She was pretty sure she hadn't seen one in a house in such a long time, but she certainly wasn't going to complain about it. The steam curled and danced atop the water, the lingering mountains of soap bubbles glinting in the light from the tiny window above the bath.   
  
She knew she should get out, the water was rather warm, which the doctor had warned her about staying away from hot temperatures for prolonged periods, but even when her skin picked up the rosy pink hue she did not budge. She just laid there, until the water had dulled to a more lukewarm temperature, before she got out and wrapped herself up in her robe. The iron stairs creaked quietly under her feet as she went back up to her room, choosing black leggings and a long sleeved, grey top that touched the bottom of her hips at the hem. Her hair remained up in a towel as she did her makeup. Now that her stock was replenished, she wore a deep purple lipstick and shadow in shades of deep, shimmery grey and kohl liner on her upper and lower lid. It might have looked better, if she didn't still have dark circles underneath her eyes, but she wasn't about to change how she did her makeup because she looked like shit.   
  
Unwinding the towel from her hair, she began to comb it with her fingers a little before picking up her brush and raking it through gently, back from her face. The sound of it raking gently across her scalp was cringe-worthy. She knew she was being gentle, but she also knew that did her no good, as she pulled the brush away and plucked several fallen out strands from its bristles with a soft sigh. Mixtures of her natural black, the ashy grey, the patchy white. Looking into her vanity mirror's reflection, she tilted her head, fingering her cheek gently, trailing up her temple, into her dark roots.   
  
Slender fingers pushed the hair this way and that, more over one side, back from her face, behind her ears, forward. Ugly. All ugly. Her hand slid back through her lengthy bangs, pulling them forward, and when her hand fell away to the top of he desk with gravity, her bangs parted and hung loosely around her face. She tucked the left side behind her ear and shoved away from the table, going to her nightstand and putting on her studded earrings; two in each ear lobe. Pausing for a moment, Clarice stroked the top of her music box gently, her free hand fluttering to the key under her shirt with a small smile.   
  
Her heels clicked heavily back downstairs, where she went straight for the coffee, doctoring it up with a hazelnut cream and a little raw sugar. Her mouth left a dark imprint on the pale colored cup as she debated what to eat when nothing seemed to have any appeal. Instead, she crossed to the cupboard and pulled down a jar of peanut butter, dipping a large spoon into it and scooping some out, carving some away with a swipe of her tongue. She turned slowly, at a small sound and tipped her head when her eyes fell upon a smoky grey cat.   
  
"I didn't know we had a cat," She muttered, setting her coffee cup down and stepping up to the counter, reaching her hand out slowly for the cat to sniff at her.   
  
"Afternoon," The deep lilt of her father's voice gave her a start and she turned to watch him pour himself a cup of coffee, drinking it straight as it was. Her nose wrinkled. She hated black coffee. "What are you doing?"   
  
"I was going to pet the-" When she looked back at where her hand hovered over the counter, she saw nothing. "Cat... Wait, isn't it morning?" She turned to look at the clock and saw it was nearly one, and not morning as she had thought.   
  
"Love, we don't own a cat." Leon slouched his shoulders, fixing a look on his daughter.   
  
"But it as just-" Her mouth pressed together. Her eyes closed.   
  
"Have you been taking your pills, Clarice?"   
  
"Of course I have," She snapped, baring her teeth. "I'm not-"

"Hallucinating?"  
  
"No." Again she looked back to the table, throwing her spoon into the sink and grabbing her cup, intent on retreating back up to her room.  
  
"Wait, wait," Her father sighed heavily, the deep, tired sigh that had become a part of his regular conversations with her anymore. His hand took hold of her arm gently, stopping her from going. "Sit, we have to talk. Come now, sit."  
  
She obeyed reluctantly, lowering herself down onto one of the dining chairs. "Talk about what?"  
  
"About school."  
  
"You've found me one?" She perked up, just slightly.  
  
"Yes, but-" The brunette shifted on heavy feet, his lips forming a thin line for a moment. "It's not an arts school. I heard that they have a dance program, as an extracurricular, for one class."  
  
"Papa, you promised me," The corners of her mouth drew downward. "If the issue is money, I'll take a year off, and save up for it. I'm sure there's somewhere that will hire me-"  
  
"It's not the money," He held up a hand to quiet her, passing it up through his hair a moment later. "We don't think you should go back to one of those schools. You need to adapt, it's an excellent public school. We decided that it would be good if you started next week."  
  
"We? We!?" The girl slammed her cup back onto the counter, some of the contents sloshing out over the rim of her cup. "Who is the We in this equation, because I certainly didn't get to talk with you about this!"  
  
"Your step mother and I--"  
  
"She isn't my step mother! She is just some woman that you decided to go off and happily marry in F r a n c e, while I rotted in a shitty hospital in Switzerland. She is nothing to me, and you have continued to disregard everything that has meant anything to me." Yelling made her muscles ache, brought back the tightness in her chest.   
"Clarice, please, be reasonable." Her father quipped, trying to keep his voice gentle. "She has been very generous to us, helping me while you were away, helping us find this lovely home we're in now."  
  
"I wasn't away, Papa!" She pulled her fingers through her hair, tugging viciously at her scalp. "You had me admitted. Don't make this sound like some vacation, because it wasn't. You act like I just left, like Mom left. Maman is dead and I-" Her chest heaved with heavy breaths, the fire dying down in her. "you sent me away..."  
  
"It was for your own protection, love-"  
  
"No, it was for yours." Her lip was trembling, and she wouldn't be surprised if much of her body was shaking. She was too angry to tell. "You were scared of me because of what happened. If the doctor had not decided they couldn't keep me any longer you would have left me there."  
  
Clarice knew that she would feel terrible, when the red faded from her vision, for the things that she said to her father. They used to fight like cats and dogs before, and they always did make up, but that was before the clinic, and all those years away. She felt different now, she realized, as she clambered back up the staircase to her room, and shut the door with a violent quiver that radiated through the floor.  
  
Sitting at her vanity, the girl pawed her hands through her hair, nails dragging lightly against her scalp. The faint sting was a ground to reality as she closed her eyes, feeling the whispers begin to set in a little at the forefront of her mind.  
  
They're going to send you back. Because they think you're crazy.  
  
 **It was all your fault.**  
  
 ~~He already has a new child. A new wife.  
  
 ****~~You'll go back in no time at all.  
  
"Stop, stop, stop..." Clarice dug her knuckles into her temples, "Shut up." Her breath whooshed harshly out of her nose, her teeth bared and clenched. In. Out. In. Out. Her pulse calmed slowly, fingers dropped delicately from her hair, blindly reaching into her drawer for the bottles with her name printed off on them. They were already uncapped, a bad habit, but it made her life easier when she had these.. episodes. Her fingers found what she needed and she shoved the little pills into her mouth, forcing them down dry and listening to the sound of her nails scraping over her table.  
  
"Ok... you're ok. You're fine." And tired. She still felt so tired... Why was she still tired? Maybe she would just go back to sleep. She rose from the desk slowly, going and fetching her music box, she returned to the vanity with her journal and sat back in the plush chair once more. Her fingers tugged the chain around her neck up over her head gently, producing the key that she turned into the lock until the soft click was popping the lid open and she was able to wind it.   
  
Clarice watched the little porcelain figure swirl around and around, opening up her journal and beginning to doodle the worn notes she could decipher on the box into the newest page. She really should pick up a book on music when she next found time to go to the library... She propped her chin up on her hand, continuing to sketch little swirls and idle things, like flowers. Black roses. They only grew in Turkey. She'd seen them once, herself. They were beautiful. Her eyes drooped, and she laid her pencil down, humming softly along to the tune.   
  
Her eyes fell shut, and she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The pencil and her book clattered off the desk when her hand brushed against it in sleep, and Clarice bolted upright, rubbing at her eyes. The day had faded to evening, casting her room in dark shadows as the sun reclined behind other buildings. Rubbing gently at her eyes as to not smear her makeup, she yawned and twisted a little, feeling her back popping with the movement. More alert now, she was confused by how unusually warm it had become for her room being inside an attic. There was a pretty, golden glow too, casting from a strange place. Her vanity wasn't a real vanity, so it didn't have lights....  
  
Raising her eyes finally, she wasn't met with a mirror. The beautiful, swirling frame was still there, illuminated by the reflections of the tall standing candelabra. Candel...abra? A warm wind gusted into the room, and she watched the candles flicker.

"No, no... Nono... Nope." She curled her fingers into fists and squinted her eyes shut, smacking the base of her palms against her temples a little forcefully. "It's not real. It's not really."  
  
She couldn't hear the whispers. But she could hear music. And laughter. She could smell something bittersweet and sharp, like liquor. Her eyes opened slowly, and she still saw it. It was so clear, like she wasn't even looking at this impossible thing through the glass of her antique mirror. "It's not real. It's not really..." Her fingers reached out, expecting to feel the cold glass.  
  
Her hand passed all the way through. And then her wrist. Her fingers wrapped around a candle, and she drew it back to her. It was there, waxy, and the warmth of the flame radiated out when she brought it closer to her face, turning it slowly. Not a hallucination then. A dream. This had to be a dream. She blew softly, and the flame dispelled, trickling smoke upwards.  
  
Just a dream... The candle dropped from her fingers and she bit her lip, looking around her room. She didn't feel like she was asleep. Her dreams didn't usually feel so detailed. She looked back again to the image in front of her, and with her hands braced carefully against the smooth surface of her desk, she climbed her way up onto it. Her leg went first, passing through just as the other had, followed by the rest of her body until she had her feet firmly planted on a word, well polished floor.  
  
This was so strange-- Clarice turned her head, only to be met with her reflection in the glow of the candles. She was looking at a mirror again. A real one, not a strange window into another world, but a real, regular mirror. The walls had some sort of classy paper, a shimmery, creamy color with gold accents, and she could hear bustling voices and footsteps. The hall she was in was tiny, a little nook in what had to be a very large building with it's immaculate and tall ceilings. She began to wander then, and the deeper in she went, the more she came across people. Large crowds packed into narrow halls in all manners of dress-- and undress -- dancing or fooling about.  
  
It was beautiful really, the noise, the production. She grasped an amber colored bottle out of a passing dancer's hand, laughing as she seemed to not notice and went on her merry way, twirling in a cluster of bronze-toned skirts and taking a lengthy sip herself. It flushed her skin with color immediately, standing out against the milky shade her skin sat at. She passed a statue that looked like it had to be made of something like gold, or at least a gold coated copper and stopped to marvel at it. It was a woman, naked, save for a blindfold and a flush-draped sheet across her lap. The detail was incredible, like if she were to touch her that she would feel her breathe.   
  
Clarice twirled a little on her bare feet, her head tilted back to see the rafters full another floor of people busy drinking, crafting, and she passed a woman whose eyes were done up like thickly painted red wings, matching the ruby of her lips. There were an impossible amount of beads in her hair, some kind of head-dress. Something very Roman looking. Her attention so thinly pulled in so many directions left her to forget to pay attention where she was going. Her hip bumped into a small table loaded with all kinds of shimmery clothing and slippers. Looking down at herself and brushing stray glitter from her clothes, she noticed how lost she must look in her plain clothing and she picked something in a mauve shade at random. The top was very tight as she slipped off into a shady corner to get it on, and she realized that the top was fitted like a corset, only without the lacing. It was a very old fashioned thing, boosting her breasts up over the edge and conforming to the slender center of her waist.  
  
At least now, maybe her hair would be the only thing that seemed off, she hoped at least as she slipped on a pair of slippers and powdered them up, dancing a bit on her toes. She could hear the instruments tuning, and suddenly things went quieter again, as if they were prepared to begin playing. She watched as a few of the other ballerina's twirled on their satin's, so fluid, so lively, and she watched intently a moment as they repeated a small section before she twirled a little herself. She felt the pull a bit, not having stretched as she might have in past times, but it brought a light back to her eyes, lifted the dark fog she'd felt descend on her since settling in dreamy Chartres.  
  
"This trophy  
From our saviors  
From our sa-viors!  
From the enslaving force  
Of Rome!"  
  
The shrill and belting tone startled Clarice a little from her pleasantries. Such a loud voice, and then so many more. Beautiful choruses of voices, and the barely audible thump of so many feet. A closer look, she had to get one! Oh, what a dream this was to be in-  
  
"With feasting and dancing and song, Tonight in celebration!"  
"We greet the victorious throng, Returned to bring salvation!"  
  
She found a piece of scaffolding to hang from, one of her feet braced on the edge of the tall base boarding to give her a view over the sidelines as she saw the several men and women march across the stage. At the forefront, was what seemed to be a Spanish looking woman. Her hair had a sort of dark, candy color to it, a pretty red, and her dress was enormous, matching the tall, intimidating head dress. Her voice was the loudest of all, she realized it to be the sharp nasal she had been hearing at the start. The steps all but vibrated the boards, the orchestra booming from their little alcove. More dancers rushed past her, and she felt her less secure grip slip away from the pole she'd been holding. She threw her arms out a little, waving a bit like a bird in an effort to keep herself from slipping her off the edge her pointe shoes had previously been securely pressed upon.  
  
Her footing gave anyways, and she fell back into a pair of arms. She looked down, first to the white cotton glove gripping her arm gently, eyes travelling up the velveteen, brassy buttoned shirt until she was looking into the face of a long haired man with very angular features. "Are you alright, mademoiselle?" His voice was deep, rich, and his eyes were kind. More like a boy than a man. People seemed to whisper excitedly when he passed by, and now he was holding her.

She righted herself quickly, putting a few steps between them, where she nodded and dipped her skirt in a brief curtsy. It seemed like the proper thing to do in a place that reeked of almost Etruscan-like beauty. "Ya-- Oui, I am fine. Thank you." He didn't sound French to her, but as she caught a few whispers she kept hearing "Vicomte De Chagny" And that, sounded to be very, very French and like someone who had to be very rich. He was looking at her still, his head tilted as he looked her over. So studious, lingering places like her hair- always the obvious - her eyes, the bandages over her wrists, at the joint.   
  
She tucked her hands away from view, behind her back. "Desole, Monsieur. In my excitement I seemed to have lost my bearings."   
  
"It's quite alright. There's quite the production going. Forgive me," He removed his hat then, holding a gloved hand out to her, where he took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "I'm the Vicomte De Chagny." He began, as if she should already know who he was. She supposed she should, if she was part of this production, and she thought it was strange that if this was her dream she wasn't aware of who he was.. "And you are?"   
  
"Clarice. Clarice Tobler." She responded, her accent lilting out a little with her name. "A pleasure." Things had fallen rather quiet in their general area, under the blaring of the practice going on not feet from where they stood, two older gentleman falling to the side of this man she now knew was someone of importance. She found she didn't like it, the aura she got from this man, as kind as he was.    
  
"I'm sure." he smiled apologetically and dismissed himself, stepping out onto the stage and interrupting the conductor, the music. Above her, she heard a rafter creek, and she glanced up, seeing only a flash of black before there seemed to be nothing.   
  
"Madame's, Monsieur's, may I gather your attention please!"   
  
Clarice spent a long moment staring off into the rafters before she turned her gaze off towards the stage.   
  
Off in the farthest corner, an older, chestnut haired woman hung beside a collection of thick curtains, watching the young girl with the patch colored hair. "She is not one of mine, Monsieur." Her head turned towards the curtains, speaking to nothing if herself, as she stood away from any others, silent for a long moment before she suddenly nodded, and moved to join the two older gentlemen and the Vicomte, to make her introductions.


	6. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice explores her beautiful dream, meets new people, a familiar stranger, and a simply... strange, stranger.
> 
> Much excitement awaits, in the Opera Populaire!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Note: Oh my god, I'm so bad about updating. I know. But hey, this chapter is longer again at least? I felt a need to balance out the re-scripting from the movie with more original content. So I'm picking and choosing scenes carefully. Bless you all who stick with me on this fic, and will continue to as I make more chapters. Writing this has brought a burning passion back to my fingers. I hope you continue to support me. Comments, likes, and all that jazz are so appreciated. Let me know what you think, share it with another fan if you know one! I'll try to get some more content out sooner but... you know how I am. Much love.))

       

        The production had been stilled for this important announcement. The Opera Populaire, as Clarice discovered they called it, was coming under new management. Everyone clapped, but there had long since been speculation, and she could hear many excited murmurings as this young Vicomte gave his thanks and blessings for becoming the supporting Patron. Clarice had wanted to focus on what the two older gentleman were discussing with him, as she still stood close enough to hear, but once again she heard that boisterous nasal and she looked towards this woman. La Carlotta. She was apparently lead, and being fussed over by a small gaggle of gaily garbed girls who touched up her intricate makeup and blotted away the sweat beading her skin.  
  
        "He love a me." She purred, grinning impishly.  
  
         "Love a me, love a me, love a me!" For a woman who had been yelling at people stepping on her and being in her way, she was rather happy from the polite adoration of the Vicomte. They were ready once more to continue the scene. Clarice wasn't an opera singer, but she loved singing. She found music to be one of the greatest little pleasures that she had been allowed while in the saddening sanitarium in Switzerland. She took the opportunity to come closer to the new managers, for a better view, and so she could keep track of the elder Ballerina woman. It was a terrible idea, but the moment she'd spotted the limber lady at the barres she felt the nagging desire to ask if they had any place for one more newcomer. If her papa insisted on trying to kill the last of what she loved, she would find it elsewhere.  
  
        Closer now, Carlotta was indeed a beautiful woman, but the more she heard of the voice attached to the lovely body draped in garish but simultaneously appealing silks, the less she began to like it. Clarice made eye contact with her, or Carlotta merely looked in the direction of the managers and herself, and her expression was less than pleased, even as she belted forth notes she probably couldn't hit in her lifetime. When they had finished, the Spanish woman shoved a few of the more petite ballerinas out of the way of her over sized skirts.  
  
        "All they want is a the dancing!" The woman was on a rant. People were disrespecting her, stepping on her gown. She demanded her companion, and spent a little time fussing the fuzzy runt while a rather robustly figured female held onto it. It didn't look like it wanted her touching it even. She screamed at a few of them in her mother tongue, claiming she was done with everything. Clarice snorted to herself. Diva, or De-vil?  
  
"I hope he is as excited by dancing girls as your new managers, because I WILL NOT BE SINGING!" She threw her hands up, hissing vehemently as she rambled on. "ANDIAMO, TUTTI. No! Es finito. Get my doggy, bring my doggy. Bye-Bye! Bye-Bye, dancing girls!"  
  
        "What do we do?" One of the managers questioned worriedly to the old manager, who had little care in the world now that he was no longer responsible for the place. He appeared to be worried anyhow. "Grovel. Grovel, grovel, grovel!"  
  
        Oh, but would it be enough for this candy haired goddess? My dress isn't finished, I hate my hat, your cast are completely useless. All of you are amateurs. My dressing room was not to my liking. Someone stepped on her precious Pooche. Clarice had once seen a tantrum similar to this for a beauty pageant child of seven...  
  
        Eventually, with much dramatic groveling, they shifted her mood. It was enough for them to coax a song out of the Spanish songbird, choosing a portion of the opera that would be focused on her, to give her the limelight she demanded. The opening tone was admittedly beautiful to her first line...

        "Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said good-bye!" And then she pitched forth a tone that pierced the air with the sharp kind of ring that made something inside your head hurt. From that point on, her accent enunciated the wrong letters, and Clarice had to question why they didn't have some French Opera lass singing this if for the most part anyone she had met seemed very distinctly to be French speaking or something much more plain.   
  
        Clarice heard some rattling, and thought someone to be moving in the rafters, but then a scream pierced through the air as one of the heavy, canvas backdrops fell free and atop the bustled skirts and legs of La Carlotta. "It's him, the Phantom of the Opera." The voice had Clarice turning her head, and for the first time she noticed, with a complete start, that this little blonde ballerina was in fact the very face she had seen in the portrait at the old pawn shop! And a Phantom? They were talking about ghosts? Her first thought was that the opera house must have some superstition, but there was something about her tone that suggested it was something else.  
  
        They were able to free her from beneath it as a man in the rafters wound it back towards the ceiling. "Buquet! For God's sake man, what's going on up there!?"

        "Please, Monsieur, dont' look at me! As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post. Please, Monsieur. There's no one there! Or if there was... maybe it was a ghost." The scraggly bearded man waved his fingers with a heavy dose of sarcastic mystique in his voice as the rope was tied down securely once more. Carlotta had gone stark raving mad at this point, spitting what, given her foreign tongue once more, and Clarice's knowledge of angry females in general, had to be expletives.  
  
        "Uh, these things do happen, Signora." Andre murmured, with the utmost hesitation.  
  
        Carlotta bared her teeth towards the men, and Clarice who had come closer to assist in removing the curtain. She shoved the patchy haired girl aside, pointing a sharp nail at Firmin and Andre. "For the past three years, these things do 'appen!" And then she whirled around to the old manager, the man they called LeFevre, "And did you stop them from 'appening? No! NNNGH! And you two- You're as bad as 'im. 'these things do 'appen?' Ma! Until you stop a these things from 'appening, This thing," She gestured to herself. "Does not 'appen. Ubaldo! Andiamo!" There was an aggressive flutter of her hands before she was whirling around and walking away. "Bring my doggy and my boxy!"  
  
        The high-toned male lead turned and scoffed at the trio of men. "Amateurs!"  
  
        "Bye-Bye and Ciao! Now you see, Bye-Bye, I'm really leaving!"  
  
        "Good riddance." Clarice murmured under her breath, though people began to panic. Lefevre appeared to be unconcerned as he breathed a heavy sigh. "Gentleman, good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Australia." It was clear from his voice that he wouldn't be answering to give any assistance whatsoever as he left the other two men standing there.  
  
        "Signora Giudicelli, she will be coming back.... won't she?" Andre inquired, looking like he needed to sit down already. The conductor shrugged, clearly he'd been dealing with this a while.  
  
        'What in the actual fuck?' Clarice was honestly shocked that he seemed so aloof while everyone else panicked. Carlotta must have pulled these stunts before, then. A hand came down on her shoulder and she started, looking over her shoulder to see the elder Ballerina standing beside her, holding an envelope with a thick and ominous seal on it.  
  
        "You think so, monsieur?" Her voice was distinctly French, more so than anyone else she had met so far in the way that made words like "think" have a subtle "Z" like sound, and while it was monotone and somehow also pleasant, there was a level of entertainment in her question. She didn't care for Carlotta, she never had, and this disturbance was more than welcome for a multitude of reasons. "I 'ave a message, sir, from ze Opera Ghost."  
  
        Firmin gave a snort of derision. "God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!"  
  
        As if the man hadn't spoke a word, Madame Giry began to paraphrase the elegantly scrawled letter in her hand. " 'e welcomes you to 'is opera 'ouse."  
  
        "HIS Opera house?"  
  
        At this point, the chestnut haired woman stole a glare in his direction. The subtle, tired kind of glare that demanded he be respectful and let her finish speaking, though she didn't expect it as she barreled on calmly. "And 'e commands zat you continue to leave box 5," She paused, gesturing with a polished cane to one of the balconies that gave a rather excellent view of the stage. "for 'is use. And 'e reminds you zat 'is salary is due."  
  
        "His Salary!?" Firmin threw his hands up as Andre took the note, squinting at the very official looking writing, turning the page this way and that to stare at the seal on the envelop, a bright red wax with a thick skull dominating the pale sheet.   
  
        "Well, Monsieur Lefevre used to give 'im 20,000 francs a mont'."   
  
        "20,000 francs!?" Firmin sputtered, snatching the note from Andre and looking back at the woman incredulously.  
  
        "Per'aps you can afford more? With ze Vicomte as your patron?" The woman sounded almost smug to deliver the news as she smiled, and took the note, folding it delicately into her fingers. She looked again to Clarice, with a studious intensity that made her shift on her satins. Madame Giry looked down to her feet, making the girl drop back down flat as if she wasn't supposed to be doing it. Her lips opened, as if she was about to say something to Clarice, when Firmin was speaking once again.  
  
        "I had hoped to make that announcement public tonight when the Vicomte was to join us for the gala. But, obviously we shall now have to cancel, as it appears we have lost our star! A full house, Andre... We shall have to refund a full house!" Oh they were doomed, utterly and completely doomed.  
  
        Clarice flinched as Madame Giry suddenly reached a hand out. Her hand passed Clarice's shoulder though, and grabbed a petite bodied brunette. "Christine Daae could sing it, sir."  
  
        "A chorus girl?" Andre scoffed quietly, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles on the front of his jacket. "Don't be silly."  
  
        "She 'as been taking lessons from a great teacher." The Madame responded with her insistent smile.  
  
        Andre looked at her expectantly, and when she said nothing more, raised an eyebrow. "Who?"  
  
        "I don't know his name, Monsieur." This girl, Christine spoke softly. She was a mousy thing if Clarice ever saw one. Lovely, and her eyes had gone straight to her when they had been dancing earlier... but very skittish.  
  
        "Let 'er sing for you, Monsieur. She 'as been well taught."  
  
        Andre heaved a sigh, nodding slowly. "All right. Come on." He ushered Christine forward, who reluctantly followed, until Madame Giry had to tow the girl into the proper position.  
  
        The conductor looked very uninterested, but he returned to his place at the podium, nodding to her. "From the beginning of the Aria then. Please, Mademoiselle."  
  
        Christine was terribly nervous, it was obvious, but even though her voice trembled a little, it WAS very lovely. A bright, passionate voice. Soft spoken still, but good. Again, Clarice was no trained professional, but her voice was much more pleasant than Carlotta's, even if it wasn't quite as powerful. The song sounded so much more romantic coming from her. Clarice felt a bit of envy at how clean she sounded. Clarice's voice had that subtle rasp to it. While people tended to find a voice like hers to be "sexy" by definition, she definitely felt like here that meant nothing. Christine finished a full verse of the song before stilling and waiting anxiously for a reaction.  
  
        Of course, everyone clapped for her, and they had decided she would be a fine replacement. It seemed like all was well once again, and they fully intended to continue on rehearsals while they still had a little time left before everyone would prep for the real performance that evening. Now the hand was intentionally back on Clarice, who looked at Madame Giry once more. "Mademoiselle, what did you say your name was?"   
  
        "Clarice, ma'am." She dipped down into a curtsy, shifting in her slippers.  
  
        " 'ow long 'ave you been a ballerina for?" Giry asked after another long moment of looking her up and down.  
  
        "Years, ma'am..." It was clear she wasn't from here, but here she was, snooping around.  
  
        " 'ave you come with your parents?"  
          
        The lie came quick to her, though it felt a little bitter in her mouth. "I don't have any."  
  
        "Hm." She took Clarice's chin. "Where are you from?"  
         
        "Chartres."  
  
        "And 'ow fast do you zink you could pick up ze steps zat you would fill up for miss Daae?"   
          
        Clarice's eyes widened. "Ma'am?"  
          
        "How fast?" She questioned again, patiently.  
          
        "Show me and I can pick it up fast." Clarice nodded, a smile coming to her face.  
          
        "Come with me." Madame Giry dropped a hand to her upper back and lead her deep into the side stages, where they had barres set up. She showed Clarice the steps, over and over, and Clarice felt the ease return to her body, as well as the satisfying soreness that came with hard work. It had been so long since she felt the soreness in her feet, and felt the light in her heart when she threw herself gracefully into the air. Ballet had taken up much of her life, and she'd never regretted it for a moment. The only breaks they took, were if Madame Giry wanted to correct her, which she didn't do as often as she expected, and to get her fitted into the costume that had previously been fitted to Christine. They were both slightly on the petite side, so it hadn't had to be adjusted too much, though the top did compress her cleavage slightly.  
  
        Clarice had a moment of worry, as the costume was more revealing than anything she had sported in a while, and because of the marks that were still a little raw encircling her wrist joints, but Madame Giry had merely given her some miniscule ribbons to tie over them that hid them perfectly without distracting too much from the costume. She had worried that she would look horribly washed out, that her hair was too ugly and would draw attention to her, but when her makeup had been done by the older woman and she stole a look at her reflection, her breath faltered.  
  
        Her skin was milk pale, but the rich colors of the outfit seemed to contrast nicely, and the artificial flush on her lips and cheeks, with darkly painted lids, was actually rather striking. With her hair bound up the way it was, the patchy coloring blended out. It was still strange, of course, she could feel people's eyes linger there, but if she danced well, then maybe no one would in fact notice. She knew that she could dance well, and the steps were gleefully drilled into her brain.  
  
        "Do well tonight, as I believe you very well may, and you will fair very well here in ze Opera Populaire." Madame Giry told her, taking her chin and dabbling a little more of the russet red tone to her cheeks. The girl had a very nice bone structure, and ink black eyes, and while that wasn't so strange, there was something mismatched about it, as if a softer blue would suit her better. The girl was very strange, she had appeared out of no where, and for Erik to not know of her when she was in the Opera house... Very curious indeed. She obviously possessed discipline, talent. Where had she come from? It wasn't easy for a young girl, even as a woman, to find herself alone in France. Aside from that fact, it was clear in her accent that she wasn't French. No parents, likely no money. They had their share of curiosities, but she was just... Curious. Not a Gypsy, to her knowledge. She looked like she couldn't belong to a caravan.  
  
        "Now, go. We 'ave very little time left. Same position as my daughter." Madame Giry ushered her along with a soft push and pat on her rump before she moved off to the sides to talk to some other Ballerinas and usher them along as well. Alone once more, she sank back into the rafters a little deeper, supporting a tiny bit of her weight against the polished, silver-topped cane she held. "She 'as very great potential, Monsieur... I can't say I 'ave seen her before though."  
  
        "Keep an eye on her." The voice was soft, a little gravelly from his extended silence. "I do not like strange people lurking around my opera house and not knowing of them." The Phantom murmured from his little alcove behind the thin wall, his head turning towards the voice of Madame Giry on the other side. "She is lovely." The words were a very factual, artificial statement. There was no genuine sentimentality to it, he wasn't complimenting her. Her structure would be considered lovely, and she had very excellent frame in her moves as she danced. There was an unsteadiness in her that suggested she was out of practice, but the passion was there. He was intrigued, at the very least. Wondering why this girl had wandered into his opera house and tried to pose as if she had belonged all along.  
  
        "Shall we keep 'er zen?" Madame Giry smiled faintly, inclining her head just a little as she watched from the sidelines.  
  
        "For now. See if you can pry more out of her. I want to know who this girl is, if she is going to continue on here." It may work to his advantage, having a replacement for his Christine, while he worked her towards the spotlight. Everything could continue on as it was more or less, nothing he didn't want to be changed would have to be changed. "But keep an eye on her, as I said."  
  
        "Of course." Done for the time, she slid away to keep a closer eye on her dancers.  
  
        The night had gone wonderfully. Clarice was thoroughly exhausted by the end, but it was a delightful exhaustion that came from hard work. It was a dream she never wanted to wake up from. People had celebrated with drinks and much talking, though Clarice had sort of basked in it off on the sidelines. It wasn't until people went their separate ways, that she was able to find Madame Giry again.  
  
        "You did very well tonight. Continue to do so, oui?" She had told the young girl. "Per'aps if you are lucky, you may take a permanent place here. Not many 'ave zis chance without much sacrifice, and money."  
  
        "I don't have any francs-"  
        

        "Of zis, I am aware my dear. If you work hard, no one will pay any mind to zis, you will 'ave deserved it. If you cannot keep up, there are plenty of people above and below who would rather see you gone. Oui?"  
  
        "Oui, ma'am." Clarice bowed her head in a light nod.  
  
        "Zen you 'ad better return to wherever it is you rest, and be ready for tomorrow. We 'ave much to do and you 'ave much work to catch up on."  
  
        "Oui, ma'am." She repeated again, warmer than her voice had been in some time. As she watched Madame Giry go, probably to find her daughter, she lingered in the empty wing and bit her lip. She didn't want to go yet, didn't want to wake up. Maybe she could take the chance to explore more of this beautiful place...  
  
        At first, she hadn't known where to go, but Clarice wandered the maze of areas she hadn't even known were considered backstage. There were many rooms, for dressing, for practice, for dining if you had the time. There were still people about, staying late to clean and make sure things would be ready for the next day, but otherwise all had fallen quiet. There were plenty stairs that lead up and down different places, but eventually, she rounded back to the one that lead up to the mysterious balcony they demanded be left empty, and yet... hadn't been. It had a lovely view of the stage. She could see what someone might desire it to be only theirs. But who? Who was this Phantom. This opera ghost who skulked around as the self proclaimed owner of such a beautifully polished playground?

          
        Clarice had only visited such places a few times. Field trips as a child, or when her papa indulged her in going to see a ballet when it came to town. Leaning against the banister now, she entertained the final phrase of the beautiful song she had heard tonight. A low volume, though it carried out into the floor of seats below her in that slightly raspy tone of hers. "They have their seasons, so do we. But, please, Promise me that sometimes... You will think..." She rocked back and forth on her toes a little, still in her satins as she let her voice dance adequately enough through the laughter like notes of the next words. "Of me...." Sighing softly, she pulled the pins free of her hair and shook the lengths back into their regular setting, a few strands falling down against the center of her nose. She blew at them lazily, smiling down at the dimly lit stage whose candles had yet to be burned out. "What a beautiful place this is. I wish I could stay here forever." She felt so at peace, the voices in her head had been quiet, this was a wonderful dream, not a nightmare.   
  
        Looking down to her wrists, she carefully undid the ribbons and looked at the raw markings. She might have been released sooner, she knew, if she hadn't been so violent so much of the time. They'd taken to tying her down in that hospital, and the wounds still hadn't healed. Bunching the ribbons in her fingers, Clarice turned and began to leave the little balcony. To her shock, she heard the heavy flutter of cloth. She didn't think anyone would be allowed to wander here at this time. Had someone been watching her?  
  
        "Hey! Wait just a minute-" She raced after the sound, her brow furrowing when she went down the hall and around the corner and whoever it was seemed to have completely vanished. She'd been ready to let it go for the moment, when a flash of silky black caught her attention and her head whipped around to the dark corner. The ropes tying up into the rafters creaked and shook, as if someone had gone through them. "Who's there?"  
  
        Silence. She went anyways, and there was a slight clatter as whoever was behind the cluttered backdrop and several more ropes took a few heavy steps back. Obviously they hadn't expected to be seen or pursued. "It's rude to spy on people." She called into the shadow, stepping in a little more. She heard more rustling, the clearing of a throat. "I wasn't spying."  
  
        "Oui, you were.." She crossed her arms over her chest.  
  
        "You were in my box."  
  
        "I- Your box?" She looked over her shoulder and then back to him again rapidly, or at least she only knew it was a Him by the soft, rasping voice. He sounded a little confused almost and indeed, Erik was plenty confused. She had chased him, and now she was talking to him, and he had for whatever reason responded back, rather than yanking his cape free of the rope tangles and slipping through the trap door just within his reach. Erik hadn't expected anyone else to be inside box five. It was his box, the one he specifically requested for the view, and where he went to think when all fell quiet in the house, and he had paid his visit to Christine. It had left him a little irked, and very proud, and dreadfully heavy all the same time. She had fainted... it hadn't been in his original plans to have her faint. So he had come, and stopped short when she stood at his balcony. Her voice was different, not the kind of trained ones he heard in his palace.  
  
         It was nice, he supposed. But different. Still, the warmth in her voice had been something he admired, slightly. She loved the heart of music. But that didn't mean he wanted her following his trails. He hadn't intended to talk to her at all, and her casualness with him was unsettling.  
  
        "You're the Opera Ghost everyone was freaking out about earlier, ya?"  
  
        "Yes..."  
  
        "Well?" Clarice raised an eyebrow, unsure if her shadow companion could see it. "Do you have a name or am I just supposed to call you a Ghost?"  
  
        "Yes-"  
  
        "Yes, what? Yes you're a ghost, or Yes you have a name and you'll tell me?"  
  
        "I have a name." He showed no inclination of giving his name, and she felt her jaw twitch.  
  
        "Shouldn't you be heading home?" Erik went on then, freeing his cape with a final tug before he opened up the creaking passage. Clarice didn't follow him this time, since he'd been spending all this time trying to back himself out of a corner. He was curious, whoever he was.  
  
        "I suppose I ought to." She said, finally, with all the eagerness of an inmate returning to their cell. Her arms dropped from her chest. "And my name is Clarice. So you know who I am next time you want to creep around on me." She tried to squint into the dark, but could only make out his faint outline as he was clothed in dark, and shadow, save for something paler than skin. She couldn't make out the color in the shadow either, but it looked to be something pastel, or chalky. White, perhaps? "Your opera house is very lovely..."  
  
        "Thank you." He paused to look back at her, but he said nothing else before he slipped into the passage. The man didn't drift very far, listening for the sound of her satins creaking back across the floors. He heard it, and turned to leave when it faded, until the humming began to float back to him. His eyes grew wide at the familiar tune that echoed back from a distance now until he could no longer hear it, leaving a question to echo inside his own head as he struck off down the damp passageway, picking up the candelabra he had been towing around with him throughout the length of the day.  
  
        How did she know the Music of The Night?  
  
        And why was his damn candelabra, as he noticed for the first time, missing a candle?  
  
        The mirror awaited in it's shadowy corner as it had when Clarice left it. She hadn't been sure why she returned to it, it wasn't as if it mattered where you left off in a dream. It was just a dream after all. Still, she went to it, touching the cool glass and appreciating her dark eyes in the reflection. She looked so tired, the shadows under her eyes were still there. But she looked.. radiant, and smiled at herself. Sliding down carefully onto the floor, Clarice continued to hum the little tune she came to love playing from her music box, stretching her slipper clad feet out in front of her and pillowing her cheek against her shoulder, letting her eyes close.  
  
        Sleep came and embraced her.  
  
  



	7. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down the rabbit hole again with a not so soft landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes... It's been months, hasn't it? Well, I appreciate those of you who still came back to read this fic. I have no update schedule, probably never will but I'm going to try and get better about it. I kind of hit a rut, I wish I could say it was because life was crazy, but I just sank into one of those pits and it took me a while to crawl my way back out. But, without any further bullshitting, here's the next chapter. I hope you can still enjoy it, despite the waits :)  
> Love, Carrie

        Clarice never knew how long Opera shows ran for, not always a new one every night, but many performances throughout the week, and the very rare daytime for if they were lucky enough to have some customers to pay more for private playings. This was, as she said, very rare. It was thrilling, these dreams. She never wanted them to stop, even if she sometimes woke feeling rather exhausted. She never wanted for forget either, and so she made sure to pen down these dreams of hers in a nice, leather bound Journal she kept in her little vanity table.  
  
        There were still smudges of ink on the side of her hand, but she kind of liked leaving them there until they came off on their own with washing and what not. Proof of her effort. It was sort of nice to write, even if they were just her dreams. Gave her a small amount of enjoyable purpose when she was awake. She got to relive it all over again that way, and ink made it feel almost more solid. She took the book with her, to relive her favorite chapter, her first dream of the opera house, and the interesting conversation with a mysterious stranger she had yet to see more of again. Plucking the pen from it's cover, she scribbled a rose into one corner while the coffee maker bubbled enthusiastically.  
  
        "Don't tell me you're making poetry now or something."  
  
        "Why?" Clarice looked up over the rim of her book at Jonathan, who poured a glass of juice and leaned against the fridge rather than sitting. She fought the urge to scowl for the moment, his presence alone striking a shockingly irritated note right off. It seemed to be happening a lot lately. Her life had turned into this constantly irritating shit show. She was angry, or sad, or bored most of the time. Until sleep took her and swept her away, and the only heavy shadows were swishes of black cloth out of her peripheral, while she danced and sang and wandered in a beautifully strange place and wondered if she would see this Ghost of hers again. Of course calling him Hers was outlandish, but it was her dream so.. Her Ghost.  
  
        "Cause it's over-rated and overly cliché for a teenage girl to do this."  
  
        "Well, it's not poetry. They are.. stories."  
  
        "That's no better."  
  
        "I could be writing bad fanfiction instead." She shrugged, got up, and grabbed a mug from one of the cupboards, filling it with what coffee had been brewed before doctoring it how she liked.  
  
        "Fan fiction?"  
  
        "Yeah, you know. Stories, for your favorite things, only better. Or, trying to be, but then it ends up worse. Like some redhead with apocalyptic mind powers joining the _X-Men_ and falling in love with arguable the most important but underrated character of the whole series."  
  
        "I... Don't know what you're even talking about." He set the glass down on the table, picking up Clarice's book while she stirred her coffee. _"The candles cast dazzling shadows up into the rafters, where I knew he probably was. I'd only seen him once but I could feel when he was watching, and I wondered if he watched me, or her. It was-"  
  
        _"Hey!" She snatched it back from him, holding it to her chest, nearly sloshing coffee on herself. "This is private."  
  
        "It's some weird shit is what it is." He told her, snorting and picking up her juice again.  
  
        "Fuck you, you preadolescent Gremlin."   
  
        "Psycho."  
          
        "Brat."  
  
        "Nazi."  
  
        "I'm from Switzerland you twit, not Germany. _Swiss-German._ You seemed adequately cool when we went shopping." Her eyes narrowed, simmering. "I hate you."  
  
"Yeah, I'm not excited about us moving and you being here either." He replied         
  
        They heard heels coming down the stairs and fell into tense silence as Elsie came into the kitchen. She looked between the two, smiling with raised eyebrows. "Good morning..."  
  
        "So it is." Clarice took her coffee and started to exit the kitchen, but Elsie stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.  
  
        "You look tired, darling."  
  
        "Don't call me that." Her lips twisted into a scowl. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have to go get dressed for this awful school." The fuck kind of "Public" School had a uniform still? France was weird, and her initial glowing happiness from moving to said place had long since faded, and with it most of her ladylike mannerism she reserved only for her dreams now.  
  
        She only was able to make it up the stairs before her father was stopping her too.  
  
        "Can't you at leas try, love?" He asked her, finishing shrugging into his jacket that still smelled of wood shavings even though he hadn't started up a new carpentry job yet.  
  
        "I am trying. I'm going to school, I did not tell your Other Mother of a wife to fall down the stairs I just came up, and I'm ready to take my meds for the morning that make everything I eat taste like Chalk and make me tolerable to humanity."  
  
        "I'm not really appreciating the attitude, Clarice."  
  
        "And I'm having a really hard time with this, can't you understand that, hmm? Papa?" She crossed her arm over her chest, the one clutching her book and not her coffee. "This is a lot to deal with. I'm _trying_ but you lied to me obviously, for a long time. I have the right to be upset that you have turned my life upside down. Now, I have to go get ready for school." She stared down at the hand on her shoulder, and her father resigned. He had to go talk to a new manager so he could start work again.  
  
        Inside her room again after another twist of stairs, Clarice took all her pills, and slipped into a black t-shirt, grey jacket, and a grey skirt. As an afterthought, she pulled some white tights up over her legs and slipped into a simple black pair of lace up shoes. She tied her hair up into a loose bun, and then proceeded to push it up into a beanie cap before she picked up the leather satchel that held a few notebooks for school, a extra pair of tights, and some touch up makeup if she needed it. She would just have to see how the day would go...

* * *

        It had gone about as mundanely as she'd expected. Classes were regular, and she spent most of the time terribly bored after she finished the assignments. There was a dance class, but it was... well. Not like a Dance School was. She felt wronged. Like she was missing out on things. Clarice hated how entitled that made her sound in her head. She wasn't a snob, but she could see the difference in where she'd been versus where she was now. This was nothing like it. Sure, some of the other girls had a lot of passion for it, and some were good. But she wasn't going to be taught how to do triple turns or how to do risky lifts. Some of the other students thought she was pretentious and a showoff when she had tried to enjoy herself.  
  
        She craved it, the way a man craved a shot of booze after a long day. The challenge, the thrill, the beauty in things like Ballet. Things like the Opera Populaire. Sighing a little, she pulled the pack of cigarettes from her purse and leaned against a pillar outside the school's gates and lit it. She took a single drag, grimacing at the stale taste before giving in and dropping it to the ground, grinding it out under her shoe. Probably wouldn't dance too well if her lungs turned to crap from it anyways... Catching her lip between her teeth, she worried the tender skin gently. Someone honked their horn for their kid to come, and she bit too hard. Tasted copper. Wiped her chin on the inside of her jacket cuff and started off in the direction of her house.  
  
        Many of the houses in the area still looked old, a little faded and chipped. Deceptively pretty. Or, really pretty, but deceptive to her for the reason of her trust had been utterly shattered in coming to beautiful, bustling Chartres. Pulling her beanie off, Clarice stuffs it away into her bag, pushes it to her back, and starts to trot at a good pace down the sidewalk. The air is slightly chilly, keeping her from sweating while she ran. The pull feels good in her legs, even if she has to go uphill a little to make it to her sunny but shadowy house with it's tilted porch and pretty door. She stands just at the edge of the porch now. Looks at all the carving in the wood and thinks of the scandalous, cloth draped bodies that made up the statues of the opera house. Her body feels heavy.  
  
        She climbs up the steps, lets herself in. The house seems quiet. Papa must be at work. Elsie... The car was gone, she assumed to do something like grocery shopping after picking up her snotty teenaged brat of a son. She really hated teenage boys... Ugh. Her shoes echo a little on the last flight of stairs, where they went from wood to sturdy metal, up to her refurbished little room in the attic space.  She steps over the suitcase still in the middle of her floor, fingers reaching up and lazily brushing the longest hanging portion of her faux chandelier lamp before collapsing down into her bed, slipping her schoolbag aside.  
  
        Her hand fumbled around in the side of her nightstand, pulling out a photo, in a frame that she used to hang on her wall once upon a time. Now it just kind of hurt. She traced over the glass with her finger, following the lines she could still make out through half lidded eyes. Proud cheeks. Inky hair. A full and soft mouth, always smiling. Until suddenly she didn't anymore.  
  
      _"Es tut mir so leid, Mutter."_ She mumbled, feeling the tension flood into her face as it contorted, her mascara running and gathering in the crease of her lower lid. It had been her fault all this happened. Such a mess... She could remember vaguely, when things had felt less like something decrepit and dark. Putting the picture back in its place, Clarice pushed herself back up from the bed, and went back to her vanity. Her reflection looked back at her, pale, skeletal almost, not helped by the fact that mascara had pooled in messy crescents in the creases under her eyes. She wiped at them slowly with the backs of her hands, leaving inky marks on her first knuckles, and her nails, wrapping her arms around herself. This was a different kind of Ghost. Not one she wanted to think and wonder about, not one she would write about, it was already burned into her memory.  
  
        It was so cold, up in the attic space. Or maybe it was just that she got so cold easily, after thinning down in Switzerland. Her eyes closed. Trying to remember things that used to fill her with warmth. The smell of her mother's perfume. The sweet smell handmade candles sometimes had, even though they had no scent. The amber liquor she'd drank in her dreams, and all those candelabra, and so many bodies. Dancing in the dew stained grass before dawn. Her lullaby...

  
 _"Guten Abend, gut Nacht  
Mit Rosen bedacht  
Mit Näglein besteckt  
Schlupf unter die Deck  
Morgen früh wenn Gott will  
Wirst du wieder geweckt  
Morgen früh wenn Gott will  
Wirst du wieder geweckt.."_  
  
        Some warmth started to come back to her face, slowly. Ebbing the chill away from other parts of her bodies. At first she thought maybe she was just adjusting, calming. But the darkness from her closed lids shifted to a deeper, subtly red shade, and she opened them slowly.  
  
        Candles again, warm and welcoming inside her mirror, the faded sound of distant voices talking excitedly. She didn't hesitate or wonder this time, as she did many times in the past, this time she practically flew through, grateful, hungering for the strangely familiar strangeness. The clothes she had worn the nights before awaited in the same spot, tucked away beneath the little table top and she quickly traded wheat she wore for them, putting her slippers on and feeling better for the rough beads, and the satin. Steadier. She wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep, but she was happy to be here, and not where her body didn't feel like her own.  
  
        Having no idea what time it could be, Clarice ran as fast as she could without slipping on her satins, squeezing in between the busy crowds just as she had before. It was just a rehearsal today, but people were feeling uncertain, panicky it appeared. And then she heard, the Daae girl she was missing. Perhaps she'd finally cracked underneath the pressure... Wondering this as she went, she found a space to do her makeup. Today, she did not find as much beauty in all that coal and russet. No warmth in the shades. All the red and black reminded her of blood, and that unsettling feeling all those years ago she wished to forget. She still felt this heaviness in her chest. Felt more disoriented. Last time she had been in this dream world, she had felt so wonderful,  her voices had been quiet. But she heard them now, whispering in the corners of her brain under all the loudness of the cast, and the crew.  
  
        Adjusting the bust of her top, she tried to locate what felt like a loose piece of trim poking the inside of her top and rubbing against her breast. When she found it to be piece of braided, sparkly border that had come loose, she merely curled the cup down and went to plucking it free. Feeling eyes on her, Clarice's head jerked up, looking around.  
  
        She saw the hole in the wall, a vent it was perhaps. And a face.  
  
        _"Buquet!"_ The shrillness of her voice shocked her, and caused a chorus of other equally shrill noises of disapproval, and she fled the room, stomping her way up the short series of steps, trailing after the hefty man who tried to scuttle in the opposite direction. At first, she was able to catch him by his scraggly locks, her nails scratching against his scalp with an aggression she didn't know she could have in such a small body and such delicate hands.  
  
        "I wasn't doing any harm, miss, honest--"  
  
        "Peeping at me does no harm, does it?" She'd wanted to believe it a rumor. That this fat drunkard skulked around watching the women while they changed through his little peep holes. Watching from above to get the best view down their garments. Her voice was a low, venomous hiss, harsh and hoarse in her mother accent. All day she had been a ticking time bomb, and perhaps Buquet would be the thing to set her ablaze today.  
  
        **You could benefit from bashing his skull into the railing..**  
          
        ~~_Do it. Do it. Do it, do it, do it, do it, do-_~~  
  
        A hand came down firmly on her shoulder, and she let a writhing Buquet go, turning to see Madame Giry holding onto her and watching with her still-water calm expression. "Clarice, mon petite. Buquet is harmless. A little stupid, but 'e should not be bozered."  
  
        "But, ma'am--"  
  
        "Leave it." She murmured in her soft but stern tone, pulling her away from the direction Buquet had continued to slink off to. "Zis attention you gazer, I do not recommend it..."

        "He was watching-'

         "So are many ozers." She looked away from her, dismissing the dancers that had gathered with a steely eye. "After rehearsal, can you stay?"

         Clarice's brow furrowed, a small drown tilting her stained lips. "Ya-- um, Oui, ma'am... but why?"

         "Monsieur would like to have a word with you."

        "Monsieur Andre? Firmin?"

        "Non, my dear."

        "The Vicomte, you mean?"

         "Come, you will be late for re'earsal." Madame Giry told her instead, taking her gently by the arm and towing her along,  pausing to look her over at the side of the stage. "You look pale, cherie. Are you ill?"

         "Non, just a long day..."

         "If you 'ave no parents, no caravan, perhaps you could make your stay here for ze night. Ze cold 'as become razer fearsome..."

        "Perhaps you are right." She mumbled. "I think I will stay tonight. But, Madame Giry, who wishes to speaks to me?"

       The woman said nothing, merely gave her a gentle shove to follow her group onto the stage for the start of their first rehearsal.  
  
        

  
*Please note, I am aware that according to the movie, as is a lot of my basis for this purely for the reason of it is more "romantic", that Christine does shortly go missing after Gala night, when they've only done this once and Vicomte sees. However, I have run it a bit differently, for Times' sake, and saying she has done several afterwards and this time they happen to notice Christine has not been returned yet. I only make an obvious note about this in order to avoid people telling me I'm doing it wrong. I don't want a carbon copy of the whole script of the movie anyways.*

The song being used if you aren't familiar with it is Brahm's Lullaby. As it's often known anyways. It is actually called Guten Abend, Gute Nacht (Good evening, good night)


End file.
